


Homecoming

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:58:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3131987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you like it?”</p><p>“Like it? It’s probably the <i>worst</i> birthday present I’ve ever received."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> This version of Victor was inspired by  [ thelittledarkcat ](http://thelittledarkcat.tumblr.com/) , who has been envisioning him as Russian for some time now. This is my spin on her headcanon. Physically, I imagine him to be very similar to Chris Evans  [ in this ](http://hongcha8129.tumblr.com/post/107111699658/chris-evans-call-of-duty-online-live-action-movie) , because why not. Absolutely zero fact-checking was done because I couldn’t be bothered (unless the lazy use of Google Translate counts), so proceed at your own risk. 
> 
>   
> [ Happy Birthday, Sherlock Holmes ](http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/01/06/the-curious-case-of-a-birthday-for-sherlock/?_r=0) . 
> 
>  

It was the first time in weeks that Sherlock had managed to fall asleep before midnight. It was also the first time in weeks that he had managed to stay asleep for more than two hours at a time, and when he was woken just after three in the morning by a dull pounding sound, his first thought was that he had somehow managed four uninterrupted hours of sleep. His second thought was that he was going to _murder_ whoever was currently knocking on the front door for interrupting his - for once - nightmare-free rest.

 

In his half-awake state, he hoped that whoever was standing out there would go away if he waited it out long enough. But the sound continued - half a minute of silence, followed by four soft but firm knocks on the door to 221B.

 

Groaning, Sherlock threw back the blankets and stumbled out of bed. He snagged a t-shirt off the floor and pulled it on, hiked up his pyjama bottoms, and padded through the kitchen to the front door.

 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered, wishing that the noise would just _stop_.

 

Sherlock opened the door and found himself staring at someone’s chest. Someone’s _very_ broad chest. He glanced up, found himself looking at a bearded man who was wearing a scarf, a hat, and a scowl like armour, and blinked.

 

“Victor,” he said in surprise. He scrubbed a hand across his face and then, when the apparition didn’t disappear, said, “ _Victor._ ”

 

The blue eyes were the only recognisable part of Victor, the rest of him hidden behind his heavy winter clothing and beard. He pressed a box into Sherlock’s hands and said, “Good morning. This is for you.”

 

He spoke in rapid Russian, which normally only took Sherlock a moment to translate. But he was out of practice, having not seen Victor in months, and his exhaustion on top of that didn’t help things. It was a few seconds before he understood what Victor had said.

 

“I - okay.” Sherlock stared blankly at the box. Victor shouldered gently past him into the flat, and Sherlock stared after him stupidly. His mind was trying and failing to catch up. Belatedly, he remembered to push the door closed, and then he followed Victor into the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

 

Victor shot him a bemused glance as he unwound the scarf from around his neck and removed his hat. He must have picked up on Sherlock’s exhaustion, for his words were slower this time, though still in Russian: “Looking for tea.”

 

He pushed his fingers through his hair and scratched his jaw absently. The beard was new - neatly trimmed and well-kept, but obviously still something he was trying to get used to. Sherlock automatically moved over to put the kettle on, pulled out two mugs, and asked, “What would you like?”

 

“Whatever you’re having,” Victor answered. “Whisky?”

 

“In the usual spot,” Sherlock answered, stubbornly sticking to English. Normally, he wouldn’t have a problem conversing with Victor in his native tongue, but he was irritated at having being woken so early in the morning by a boyfriend who obviously didn’t want to offer him any answers to his questions. Victor went to retrieve the bottle and set it on the counter. And then, in a brief moment of tenderness, he pressed a kiss to the curve of Sherlock’s jaw before moving away. He was only ever gentle with Sherlock, the only person who he bothered dropping the icy facade for - and even that was only when it was the two of them.

 

“I was out there waiting for ten minutes,” Victor admonished, still in Russian.

 

“I was _asleep_ , Victor. It’s three in the morning,” Sherlock said in English.

 

“Yes, well, I’ve been traveling all night. How do you think I feel?”

 

The words sounded harsh in Russian, though Sherlock had known Victor long enough to detect the gleam in his eyes that betrayed his amusement. Sherlock snorted and shook his head, refusing to feel sympathy for him. Victor finally unbuttoned his coat and slipped it off. He was dressed tonight in a black shirt and jeans, which was momentarily startling. Sherlock wasn’t used to seeing him out of his uniform. 

 

Victor rubbed his hands together and added, “Lovely change to be in London, though. It’s a heatwave here compared to Moscow.”

 

Sherlock sighed finally and said, “English, please, Victor. I’m too tired to be translating in my head.”

 

Victor gave a gentle smile and finally said, in his lightly-accented English, “What do you think it’s like for me, Will?”

 

Sherlock snorted and said, “You were raised with both languages, Vic. I only first learned Russian when I met you. And I’m exhausted. Please, go easy on me tonight.”

 

He went to pour the tea into their mugs and added, “Or, we could both switch to German. That would even things out a little bit, since we’re both terrible at it.”

 

Victor gave a small laugh and crossed the room to him. He cupped Sherlock’s face in his broad hands and leaned down to kiss him. It was a slow, languorous kiss, and when Victor pulled back he murmured, “I’ve missed you.”

 

Sherlock put his hands on Victor’s hips and pulled him in again for another kiss. He hummed appreciatively against Victor’s mouth and said, “I like the beard.”

 

Victor snorted. Sherlock drew him in one last time, and when they pulled apart he added, “I’ve missed you, too.”

 

Victor brushed his thumbs under Sherlock’s eyes. The smile faded from his face, and he looked concerned. “You haven’t been sleeping, I see. At least, not much. What’s going on?”

 

Sherlock dropped his gaze and pulled out of Victor’s grasp. He picked up both mugs of tea and handed one to Victor. He didn’t want to talk about this now, especially at three - no, three-thirty - in the morning.

 

“That’s not an answer,” Victor said quietly after several moments of silence. He took the mug and added a shot of whisky to it. He offered the bottle to Sherlock, who shook his head.

 

“Well, you didn’t answer _my_ question,” Sherlock said. “What are you doing here?”

 

“It’s your birthday,” Victor said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Where else would I be but here?”

 

Sherlock finally laughed then, because he had _completely_ forgotten the date. He’d lost track of the days for a while now, apparently - the last date he remembered being the second of January.

 

“You haven’t been in London for my birthday in five - no, _six_ years,” he said in amusement. “What makes this year different?”

 

“Well, thirty-five, it’s a milestone,” Victor said, giving him a crooked smile. “I’m surprised you made it to thirty-five, Mr Reckless.”

 

“I’m surprised _you_ made it to see me turn thirty-five, Mr Secret Agent,” Sherlock said, but it came out far more bitter than he intended. The smile dropped from Victor’s face, and Sherlock felt his own fade. He closed his eyes briefly and said in a low voice, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

 

“It’s all right. You’re tired,” Victor said, putting down his tea so that he could wrap Sherlock in a loose embrace. “It’s late, and I’ve interrupted your sleep enough for one night. Come, let’s go to bed.”

 

Sherlock was half-asleep by the time Victor had washed up, changed, and crawled into bed. He pressed against Sherlock from behind, draped his left arm over Sherlock’s waist, and kissed the shell of his ear.

 

“Good night, Sherlock,” he murmured, once more in his mother tongue. This time, the gravelly Russian words were a comfort, and Sherlock slipped into the first completely dreamless sleep he’d had in ages.

 

When he woke, it was nearing midday. Victor still slumbered beside him, and Sherlock sank further into his embrace, enjoying being enveloped by the sleep-warm body. Finally, at half-past eleven, Victor stirred and murmured - in English, bless him - “You never opened your present.”

 

The box, Sherlock realised after a moment. He’d left it in the kitchen last night, forgotten in his exhaustion.

 

“Go get it?” Sherlock asked, rolling over and giving Victor an imploring smile. Victor sighed and rolled his eyes, but got out of bed anyway. He returned with the box and handed it to Sherlock before climbing back in the bed and curling up behind him again.

 

“It’s not much,” he said, and Sherlock snorted.

 

“You know how I feel about presents anyway, Victor,” he said. He opened the box and pulled out a mug, rotating it until he could see the lettering. And then he started to laugh, belly-deep and full. “Christ, _Victor_.”

 

Victor was giving him a mischievous smile. “Do you like it?”

 

“Like it?” Sherlock chuckled. “It’s probably the _worst_ birthday present I’ve ever received. ‘World’s Greatest Detective’? Please tell me you didn’t spend a fortune on getting this made.”

 

“Of course not,” Victor said, completely unperturbed by Sherlock’s laughter. “It’s what’s inside that was costly.”

 

Sherlock stopped laughing and raised his eyebrows at Victor, who said nothing. He peered inside the mug, and discovered that there was a small, black box in there. He pulled it out, and Victor gently took it from his hands. He sat up, and opened the box.

 

“Ты выйдешь за меня замуж?” he asked softly. And then he shook his head and said in English, “Sorry, I mean -”

 

“I know what you mean,” Sherlock said, covering Victor’s hands with his own. They were trembling slightly, those sniper’s hands that could never afford to be anything _but_ steady. “That - that question is recognisable enough in any language. _Yes_. Yes, Victor, I would love to. But how -”

 

“I’m retiring,” Victor said, reading the question in his face easily. “Thirty-seven is far too old for someone in my field. Hell, _thirty_ was too old.”

 

“Victor -” Sherlock swallowed, because this _was_ what he wanted, what he’d wanted since he was nineteen and Victor was twenty-one and preparing to leave him for the first time. “Don’t do this for me.”

 

“I’m doing it for _me_ ,” Victor said quietly. “I’m ready, Sherlock. It’s time to be finished. No more missions; no more secrets. And - and if you’ll have me, I’d very much like to come back to London and be with you. Properly, this time.”

 

Sherlock licked dry lips and then finally rasped, “How soon?”

 

Victor’s face broke into a grin. “Well, I resigned twelve hours ago, so… now?”

 

Sherlock abruptly closed the distance between them and kissed him. The small box with the silver ring inside fell from Victor’s hands, landing in his lap as Victor raised his hands to cup Sherlock’s face.

 

“Welcome home, Victor,” Sherlock whispered, and Victor laughed before kissing him again.

  
It was definitely the _best_ birthday present Sherlock had ever received.


End file.
